This Dog for Hire

the door, and came back up to the desk where I could take notes. It was time to see broadly, to check every little detail out again, to consider every possibility and to avoid jumping to conclusions.
    As Ida, my therapist, used to say, pushing up her sleeves and making two lines between her eyes, finally we’re getting started.
    “Mrs. Cole? This is Elaine Boynton, Clifford’s friend. I was so sad to hear about Clifford. Yes. Yes. And so I feel just terrible that I missed the memorial service. Really? He said that? She’s, uh, gone. Yes. A small, private one. Yes, I do. I’m sure they would. I understand. I was wondering where I could send a donation in Clifford’s name. Does the family have a preference? Okay. Thank you.“

30
    What Would You Like to Say?

    I HAD SPENT all day and evening yesterday on the phone. All I wanted to do today was get over to Cliff’s loft and find the final few pieces of the puzzle. But there was one place I wanted to go to first, B & H Photo, to pick up Clifford’s slides.
    “This is olt,” the pale, bearded young man in the yarmulke told me, examining the slip I handed him-“Vot made you vait so lonk?”
    “I was busy,” I told him.
    Then he noticed Magritte, who had put his paws up against the counter to see what was on the other side.
    “Oh, it’s mine friend,” the young man said, step ping forward and leaning over. “I’ll get for you a kendy, vait, vait,” and all in a stir, he reached in one of the candy dishes that sat at even intervals along the counter and pulled out a small Tootsie Roll for Magritte.
    “He doesn’t eat candy. It’s not good for him,” I said in protest. But I was too late. The Tootsie Roll was already in Magritte’s mouth.
    “He alvays eats a kendy ven he comes. Vot vould he t’ink if ve didn’t give to him today a piece?”
    But as I watched Magritte chewing, opening his month twice as wide as usual for each bite, all I could think about was the poisoned bait and how quickly and unexpectedly the whole world could change.
    I put the yellow box into my pocket and headed downtown with the dogs. After I tossed the loft again, I’d sit down and look at the slides and have myself a good cry.
    Walking downtown, Dashiell plodded along at his usual workmanlike pace, stopping only when I told him to wait at street crossings where the light was red. Magritte kept pace, darting to the side occasionally to try to catch a bit of paper that was swirling about in the wind. But as soon as we crossed Houston Street, Magritte’s demeanor changed. He began looking up at me and whining, as if he couldn’t contain himself. When we got to Greene Street, he pulled straight for home, and once inside, where I unhooked both leads, he dashed on ahead, passing his new home and going straight for his old one.
    I knocked. After all, there seemed to be more people with keys than without them, and I didn’t Want to cause anyone undue fright. Then I unlocked the door, Magritte impatiently jumping up and down at my side. He was the first one inside when I opened the door.
    Dashiell headed straight for the kitchen, looking for water. Magritte walked to the center of the front room and sat. Head cocked, as if listening for a sign that his beloved master was home, a sound, a scent, anything to hang his hopes on, he stayed in place without moving, as I did, watching him. Suddenly, his muzzle tilted up, his mouth made a small circle, and he let out the most heart-wrenching sound, a keening howl, not long and smooth like a wolf howl, but a piercing awoo, awoo, awoo , a pause, then again, awoo, awoo, awoo, the second time joined from the back of the loft by Dashiell’s guttural howl, honoring his friend’s misery the way a second hunting dog honors a point.
    For a while Magritte stayed close enough to trip me when I tried to walk, following me to the kitchen, where I filled the water bowl and put the kettle up for tea. He stayed close by while I poked around in the cabinets for snacks, even trying to join me on the step stool when I was checking out the shelves I couldn’t reach. When he found he couldn’t reach me, he whined and paced. I let him be. Dogs have as much right to the integrity of their feelings as people do.
    After pulling down some unopened rice crackers and—God is merciful and all knowing—an unopened box of Mallomars, I felt an envelope on I he top shelf, the one I could barely reach, even with the stool. I managed to pull it forward with one